


two hearts beating each to each

by Shamelessly_Radiant



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Canon Era, Kissing, M/M, Scruffy Arthur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-02-23 00:03:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23769295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shamelessly_Radiant/pseuds/Shamelessly_Radiant
Summary: Darkness inspires a sort of sincerity that is rarely seen in the light.Written for Scruffy Pendragon Fest 2020.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 29
Kudos: 269
Collections: Scruffy Pendragon Fest





	two hearts beating each to each

**Author's Note:**

> title from 'meeting at night' by robert browning
> 
> unbetaed, so feel free to point out any and all mistakes.

It is pitch-dark when Merlin finally leaves the cover of the forest adjoining Camelot, leaving the rustling leaves and buzzing insects behind him as he spurs his horse into a canter as soon as he gets to the lower town. It is the kind of dark that only occurs during winter, when the days get shorter, and the sun steadily declines in the sky after midday and is gone between one blink and the other.

The moment the sun had start to set, Merlin had debated stopping and staying a last night in an inn to do the rest of the treck in the morning. But the feeling that had set in two days ago, calling him back to Camelot, to Arthur’s side, had only strengthened as he got closer. His mother had sent him enough provisions to last the three-day ride, he had a dagger, and he had his magic to protect him, settled in a low buzz around him, warming him against the frost and cloaking him in the darkness.

Thus, it is late when Merlin arrives in the main square of the castle. The kind of late that has the majority of the torches extinguished, and the guards giving him no more than a cursory, drowsy glance as he passes by them. Merlin, dead on his feet, wants nothing more than to go collapse face first into his bed and sleep till midmorning. But, when a page boy rushes up to him and tells him Arthur wants him to go report straight back to him, a strange feeling chases through Merlin’s gut, anticipation and tiredness clashing and settling heavily.

Merlin looks up instinctively, and thinks he catches Arthur’s shadow in front of his window. The backdrop of darkness, however, makes it difficult to catch any more details than that. He wonders, though, if Arthur has been looking out, waiting and watching for his return, and spends a moment too long just looking.

His mare shuffles and whines softly against his neck, and it is no small gratefulness he feels when the page tells him that Arthur ordered him to take care of Merlin’s mare for him. He acknowledges this with no more than a nod and a tight-lipped smile, too tired for more than that perfunctory interaction, and shuffles to the Castle's entrance, summoning the strength to brave the stairs to the King’s chambers.

Arthur’s chambers are dark and cold when Merlin slips inside; Arthur still stands in front of the window, facing away from him.

“You wanted to see me, sire?” He says, going over to the hearth to tend to the fire; burning low and almost extinguished.

Arthur makes no audible reply, but Merlin can hear him behind him— his feet pattering softly on the floor, the chair scraping as he settles down at the table, and Merlin has half a mind to reprimand him, it is too cold for bare feet, and Arthur cannot risk catching a cold. Merlin wonders when caring this much for Arthur and his wellbeing became a second nature to him. Even now he can feel his magic restlessly reaching out to him, stirring the cold air around them into life, warming the room a degree or two more, and Merlin has to call it back before it does more than that, before it goes and wraps around Arthur. Instead he settles for, “George didn’t tend to the fire, earlier?”

“I send him away,” Arthur says, almost gruffly. There is a strange quality to his voice at the end of his sentence, as though there is something more to it, as though the statement is unfinished, words bitten off and swallowed. Perhaps though, it is simply the distortion of the dark; the way voices lower instinctively in it, the way shadows seem to form figures of people, when come day they turn out to be merely tables or chairs.

The window is open, but when Merlin goes to close it, Arthur says, “leave it, Merlin.”

He wavers a second more, but he knows Arthur in the end, knows him all too well. Knows how he gets too warm in the night, tossing and turning and kicking the blankets off him. In the beginning, the few times Merlin had come in during the night, or had kept guard as Arthur recovered from illness, he had, confused and barely awake, thrown the blankets back onto Arthur only for him to throw them off again, complain of feeling stifled and of Merlin leaving the fire burning on too hot during the night once he awoke in the morning. Merlin knows, by now. Knows that’s why Arthur likes to sleep bare chested, just as he likes the crisp of the air to wake him up fully come morning.

He makes his way over to Arthur’s side, instead.

Arthur looks up at him, but Merlin cannot make out much of his face, beside the shadow of a stubble on his face, cloaked in darkness as it is. “Sit down, Merlin,” Arthur says after a second, gesturing to the chair next to him, and Merlin does so, albeit his slight confusion.

“I trust your mother was well?” Arthur asks him, and it begins to dawn on Merlin that perhaps, Arthur missed him as much as Merlin missed him. That perhaps, he wanted to see Merlin merely for that purpose alone. A teasing remark lies on his tongue, but he swallows it. Perhaps it is the darkness still, the fire barely starting to glow golden, fighting against the slight breeze that is playfully stirring the curtains into dance— perhaps it is something more than that, but the atmosphere is laden with a sort of brittle peace, and Merlin finds himself loathe to disturb it.

“Yes. Thank you.”

“And your return trip was good? You returned sooner than expected.”

“Long,” Merlin huffs a slight laugh, “but fine, yes. I wanted— wanted to come back.” He finds himself stammering out, more sincere than he had planned to be.

Arthur stays silent but turns to face him fully.

He has been sitting with his back to the hearth, face slightly turned away from Merlin until now, looking only at him from the side. The fire is only starting to burn, and as Merlin only put in two logs, has not been emitting much light till now.

So it is only now that Merlin really _notices_. Arthur’s stubble is more than a shadow, as Merlin thought it was. And his hair got _longer,_ kind of shaggy, and he looks unfairly good. Merlin’s mouth goes dry, and his heart stutters in his chest.

He reaches out, and before he can stop himself, fits his hand against Arthur’s cheek, against the coarseness of his beard.

“Merlin, what are you—” Arthur starts, but breaks off as Merlin strokes along his jaw, his chin, even his mouth; he is— transfixed, and it must be the tiredness, it must be the darkness, the late hour, but Arthur isn’t really stopping him either.

“You grew out your hair,” Merlin says wonderingly.

Arthur exhales on a shaky sigh, raising his hand to curl around Merlin’s wrist loosely, just… _there_ , not really doing anything but not pushing him away either. And then he raises his other hand to Merlin’s jaw, stroking his thumb against Merlin’s stubble, eyebrow cocked in a way that Merlin thinks means _look who is talking._

 _I’ve been on the road for three days,_ Merlin thinks but doesn’t say, not really finding the words. His heart is beating traitorously fast in his chest, Arthur’s eyes are steady on his, and afterwards, Merlin will never be certain who it was that moved first, who it was that closed the distance, but Arthur’s lips are a slow, sweet slide against his.

They linger a little bit, first, lips closed against each other, not quite pressing into each other, but then Arthur lets out a shaky sigh, and his slightly parted lips catch against Merlin’s, and the temptation to take his fuller lower lip in between his own, proves too great for Merlin too ignore. Arthur tilts his head slightly, giving Merlin better access to his mouth, and his fingers slide into Merlin’s hair.

Their lips are pressing more fully into each other now, soft and slightly wet, and Merlin flicks his tongue slightly against Arthur’s lips when he draws back a little to breathe. Arthur turns his head at that, his breath skittering out against Merlin’s skin, and he presses back, his hands now cupping Merlin’s face, angling him just so, and then it is Arthur’s tongue that flicks out, meeting Merlin’s.

This time, it is Merlin that sighs, pushing his fingers more fully into Arthur’s shaggy hair, stroking the soft, long strands, and letting Arthur set the pace, letting Arthur deepen the kiss and pull him closer with a hand on his neck, meeting his tongue when he wordlessly asks Merlin to do so, and nibbling on his lips when he withdraws it. Arthur’s hand slip under Merlin’s heavy coat— a yule gift from him— to push it off his shoulders, to then stroke the sensitive skin and soft hairs on the back of Merlin’s neck as he angles his mouth better.

They part to breathe when it becomes a little too much, foreheads resting against each other, Arthur’s eyes dark on his, their breaths mingling together in the little space that there is between them. Eventually, the eye contact becomes too much, too intense, and Merlin lowers his head to nip at the juncture of Arthur’s neck and shoulder.

Arthur tenses slightly under him, inhaling shakily, and then his hands are on Merlin’s hips, nudging slightly, and Merlin, understanding what Arthur wants, goes all too willingly into his lap. Arthur’s hands are in his hair then, pulling him back so that he can press his lips back against Merlin’s, flick his tongue in between his lips to meet Merlin’s, and the kiss turns a little bit messy and dirty then, open-mouthed and the good kind of wet, and Arthur’s hand slips beneath Merlin’s shirt to stroke his side and then settle on his back, warm and heavy and nudging him closer.

Their fronts are pressed fully together now, Arthur’s shirtless chest and hard nipples rubbing against Merlin’s chest through his shirt and jumper, not really enough to feel them, but enough to know that they are there, and they’re close enough together to know that they are both equally hard.

They don’t do much about it though, not now, not yet. There will be time for more later. For now, Arthur pulls away with a last nip to his lips, seeming content to just keep Merlin close in the circle of his arms, and Merlin in turn is equally content to just breathe, enjoy the closeness, stroke Arthur’s longer hair away from his face.

Merlin presses a kiss to Arthur’s cheek, not really minding the burn of his beard, and finally breaks the silence to ask on a whisper what his long hair is about.

Arthur chuckles, his fingers rubbing distracting circles into Merlin’s back, kissing a way to his ear to murmur that “the hairdresser fell ill, while you were away.”

He then pulls back to look Merlin in the eye, adding, “and as for the shaving, there is no one else I'd trust to do that but you.”

Of course. Merlin forgets sometimes, how careful a King has to be. How easily a life is ended. But there is something else in Arthur's gaze, something guarded, and Merlin understands the statement for the confession he thinks it is meant to be. Wonders again at how the night seems to inspire sincerity. Something about the lack of light, perhaps, making it feel safer to trust your voice with the truth.

“Me too,” he murmurs, settling in; feeling safe and content in Arthur’s arms, closing his eyes, breathing him in, and holding on tight.


End file.
